Rosie is Here!
by Rapunzel24
Summary: A decade or so after Season Four: Rosamund Mary Watson is a feisty ten-year-old with lots of personality and charm. In this collection of one-shots, watch as she and her little family interact with eachother now that the Final Problem has passed. John and Sherlock aren't exactly the best at raising little kids, causing a sweet story full of laughter and Sherlockian cheer.
1. Chapter 1: Sherlock and Rosie

**Heyo, people. I am just IN LOVE with BBC Sherlock. It's DEFINITELY the best show I've ever watched. SO I tried to transfer some of this crazy fangirl-ness into a series of little one-shots of life and Baker Street once Rosie is about ten. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I'll enjoy writing them!**

Rosie Watson was in a terrible mood.

Her day had been AWFUL. Completely, entirely AWFUL.

To start with, she'd been woken up far too early in the morning because Uncle Sherlock was playing the violin in order to think. She finally fell back asleep only to rise extremely late, make it out the door fifteen minutes after the first bell rang, and get to class dead last. Needless to say she was marked "tardy", making it the third that month.

Mrs. Wentworth, her teacher, was not pleased.

Then, in Science, Mr. Zamboni announced that Rosie's homework report was by no means satisfactory. In front of the _whole class_!

That wasn't even her own fault. Her subject, the Solar System, was a subject best directed at her dad, John; but he was away in Ireland for the week. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, was too busy to help. And Uncle Sherlock only muttered something about the Van Buren Supernova and Vermeer, then directed her to Molly Hooper. Molly was too busy cutting up brains to help, so that was that. Rosie had to copy-paste Wikipedia sentences until one o'clock in the morning, which was evident when she couldn't explain a word of her own report.

After utterly failing the Science assignment (she'd have to totally rewrite it that night, along with the new homework they were assigned), Rosie had to sit outside in the fog along with all the others for fifteen minutes during break-time. That was when Zach Toleman called Sherlock a fake, so she punched him in the stomach.

The headmistress was rather annoyed with that.

Immediately after break was Phys Ed. They had to do it in the Gym because it was too cold to go outside; Gabby Telminger accidentally tripped Rosie up in the cloakroom, causing a painful interaction between the floor and Rosie's chin. By the time it was the end of school, it looked like she'd spray-painted her chin purple.

Then, after that total train wreck of a day, Rosie had to trudge all the way home because Mrs. Hudson's car was being repaired and John wasn't there to take her to Baker Street by taxi. Of course, it started to rain on the way back.

Rosie banged open the door to 221B Baker Street, stepping through the entrance in a fit of anger.

"Hello, dear- oh, is it raining?" Mrs. Hudson bustled to her with a smile.

"No," Rosie said sarcastically, "I just danced around under a hose in the middle of November."

"Don't be cheeky, dear, it doesn't suit you."

"I'm not cheeky! I just had a bad day."

"We all have bad days, Rosie. Dearie, what happened to your chin?!"

Rosie scowled. "I don't want to talk about it."

Mrs. Hudson tutted, but offered to help Rosie out of her sodden coat. She was Rosie's godmother, after all, and often took care of her in little ways.

Rosie declined the help. She didn't feel like owing anyone anything, not today. So after angrily shedding her outer layers, Rosie yanked the band out of her ponytail and stomped upstairs.

Uncle Sherlock was at it AGAIN, still playing the violin. Rosie could hear him from the stairs. He was composing- she'd never heard this tune before.

"Lot of good that rotten violin is." She remarked sullenly, throwing her backpack on the carpet and plopping down on the couch.

"Hello, Rosie. Bad day at school, was it?"

Sherlock still had his back to her, but he'd stopped playing.

"Yeah. See if you can guess why?"

"Guess? I don't 'guess'." He insisted.

"Sure you do."

"Hm. You definitely got a bad score on some kind of work- most likely a report and not a test, since I haven't seen you studying and you wouldn't be as upset if you hadn't prepared. Now, I know you've been asking about the Solar System, which points towards report even more because you know that nobody currently in this house can explain it to you. I'd assume you were late today as well- sorry about that –and I can hear it's raining, so you're probably soaked. From the way you speak, all grumpily, I'd say you had a quarrel with an adult, probably a teacher. And you're not ignoring me so you feel bad for me, suggesting you defended me from somebody and got in trouble for that. You don't sound in pain but I know you, you wouldn't insult somebody as defense, so I'm assuming you punched the person who insulted me in a soft area, most likely the stomach."

He turned around and stared right at Rosie. "And yes, a bruise on the chin. Obviously caused by a flat surface because there are no cuts or grooves in the skin, I'd say you tripped up and fell on a floor towards the middle of the day. Why the middle of the day? If it were earlier it would've started healing, later and it'd still be blue. Now, Rosie, do you really think all that was guessing?"

Rosie, despite having heard Sherlock do this sort of thing very often, was quite impressed.

"All correct." She admitted. "But it's still your fault I failed the Science assignment."

Sherlock raised the violin to his chin again. "You know I don't understand in Astronomy. It was pointless for you to ask in the first place."

Rosie grunted as he started to play again. The music was quite soothing, actually, calming her down a bit. She heaved herself off the couch and went to the fridge to get some ice for her bruised chin.

(Of course, there were some body parts in there. There always were. Rosie tried not to let it bother her, though. Thankfully, it didn't.)


	2. Chapter 2: John and Rosie

**Wow. So this chapter made me realize how much time has passed since Sherlock and John met: 14 years in this fanfiction! Along with that, it tackles Mary's death and stuff. I almost cried from thinking about her. Good luck.**

John Watson was back from Ireland with leprechaun souvenirs and a body that needed serious rest.

He'd returned to his flat just twenty minutes ago; twenty loud, noisy, excited minutes. During that time he managed to distribute little gifts to his three closest friends (one of whom was his daughter), drink a cup of tea, hug everyone twice, and promptly fall asleep in his armchair.

"I'm rather surprised," Sherlock said, sipping a cup of tea and not sounding surprised at all. "John's used to much longer periods of time without sleeping. One time we spent the entire night flipping through two dead men's books, and he went straight to work the next morning."

Rosie sat up. "Really? When did that happen, again?"

"Well, it was the time with the Chinese smugglers-"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head from the sink. "Oh, Sherlock, don't tell Rosie about all those murders!"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, it's interesting." Rosie blew on her mug to cool it down and added another spoonful of sugar, ignoring the landlady's disapproving look. "Wait, Uncle Sherlock, was that the one with weird old Sarah and the German tourist book?"

Sherlock nodded. " _Weird old Sarah_ almost got impaled with an arrow because a Chinese mafia leader called Shang thought your father was me. Give her some respect."

Rosie choked on her tea.

"He thought DAD was YOU?!" she spluttered, wiping her mouth.

"She. Shang was a woman. And yes, she did. Perhaps your father should discourage the habit of carrying my own cheques around in his wallet."

Rosie snorted. "Yep, not the wisest choice."

Sherlock shrugged with a small smile and stood up. "Indeed. Mrs. Hudson, if you don't mind, I'll have some biscuits as well."

"I DO mind, Sherlock, we're almost out. I was saving them for Rosie-"

"- _Some biscuits._ "

Mrs. Hudson sighed as he walked out of the room, cup and saucer in hand.

"I'll buy you some more, Rosie dear." She promised. "I don't know what goes on in Sherlock's mind, fourteen years and he still thinks I'm his housekeeper…"

Rosie snickered. "I'll move Dad to his room, Uncle Sherlock might drop a hammer on him as an experiment."

"That he might, Rosie, that he might."

Had anyone else attempted to rouse John Watson, he may have accidentally taken their head off. Luckily for Rosie, she was his daughter, causing him to be gentle with her even in cases of disgruntled half-sleep.

"Thanks, love." John murmured as Rosie helped him up. "Sorry I'm so tired, I didn't sleep the whole flight."

Rosie giggled. "You're funny when you're half asleep, Dad."

John groaned and raised his eyebrow. "That reminds me a bit too much of your Uncle Sherlock's 'enemies'."

"Like?" Rosie inquired. John didn't often talk about his adventures before Rosie was born. They were usually traumatizing, but Rosie longed to hear more about them. Maybe if John was sleepy…

But no; he raised an eyebrow and smirked tiredly. "Oh, you're a clever one, Rosie. But I'm not telling you anything now. Maybe when you're older."

Rosie was disappointed, but didn't press on her father. He was exhausted, and she feared she'd arouse an old fear inside him. Something about her mother, perhaps. So she hugged him goodnight and padded back to the living room, where Sherlock was tapping away on his laptop. He didn't notice Rosie come in.

She picked John's laptop off the table, right before Sherlock's face (still didn't realize she was there) and settled on the couch, feet tucked beneath her. The device was password protected, of course, but Rosie knew the code: her mother's name. Mary.

The computer was very useful to Rosie. She didn't often use it for research (apart from that fateful Solar System report); usually whatever Sherlock didn't know, John did, and vice versa. No, Rosie used it to discover, bit by bit, what her father and uncle's adventures were.

And that was by looking in on their websites.

Sherlock's, The Science of Deduction, wasn't very useful. Unless all the stories were a load of codswallop and the pair had spent their years together studying tobacco ash, Rosie assumed Sherlock's website was not the place to look.

But there was John's blog. It was no longer what it once was; nowadays, John occasionally posted about Sherlock's more unique cases but for often blogged about Rosie. The habit had died in the past few years, however. When Rosie opened the website, the newer stories featured her around the third grade.

Rosie clicked past all of those, hunting for the old ones. The REALLY old ones, those written back when Sherlock and John had just met. She loved to read them. It made her feel like she knew her father better.

"What are you doing?"

Rosie panicked and slammed the laptop shut to see John standing before her, arms crossed.

"I thought you were asleep!" She exclaimed.

"I WAS asleep. Sherlock unfeelingly woke me up to inform me we were out of milk- Rosie, what were you doing on my laptop?"

She stayed silent, so John plucked the computer from her lap and checked its history.

"Oh, Rosie." He sighed, sitting down next to her. "Why didn't you tell me you were this curious to know?"

Rosie shrugged, fiddling with her fingers. "I dunno. Uncle Sherlock sometimes tells me about the funny cases, but I want to know about the scary ones. Moriarty. Sherlock's pretend death. Magnussen. Actual adventures. And… well…"

John turned to her. "What is it, sweetheart?"

Rosie bit her thumb. "I guess… Mum. Sorry. But… I never knew her. And I don't know what's her story and… well… anything."

John sighed again, deeply. He put his forehead in his hands, looking so sad Rosie regretted ever speaking.

"Rosamund Mary Watson." He finally said. Nothing past that. Just her name. It seemed to make him happy to say it, to feel it on his tongue.

"Rosamund. Mary. Watson." John repeated his words, then looked up at Rosie. "That was your Mum's real name. Rosamund Mary. But she preferred her life as Mary Watson. She would be so happy to see you-"

His voice broke, and Rosie leaned over and hugged him.

"Rosie. Always remember. You are the light of my life. Your mother would be-IS-so proud of you. Uncle Sherlock would do anything for you. It doesn't matter what the two of us, or anybody concerning us, did before. Someday, I promise you will know it all. But just know this: all of that was for you. All of it, even if we didn't know it, was leading up to you. Rosamund Mary Watson."

He hesitated.

"You can throw in a 'Holmes' at the end if you want, you practically are one. I'm sure Mycroft won't mind."

Rosie smiled and cuddled closer to her dad: the two Watson, remembering together.


	3. Chapter 3: Mycroft and Rosie

Mycroft Holmes was never the one for babysitting.

Rosie knew that from experience; when she was four, he almost let her play with knives. ALMOST. Then, at the last minute, he remembered she was not a "Holmes child" and decided she'd be better off playing with cardboard farm animals than sharp kitchen utensils.

But now, somehow, she was stuck in his house. Just waiting for the tedious two-and-a-half hours of mind-numbing boredom to end. Because John and Sherlock went out to dinner together ("Strictly friendly, so don't get ideas", John had warned Mycroft), and Mrs. Hudson was on holiday, and Molly was working late. So that was that.

Mycroft's house was not a fun place for a girl of ten. There were no books or DVDs or even little soldier dolls. There weren't even any pencils for drawing, only expensive pens that Rosie wasn't allowed to use.

She highly suspected Mycroft didn't regard her as a proper niece. That was perfectly acceptable because she didn't regard him as a proper uncle either. Technically, even Sherlock wasn't her real uncle; she didn't have one. But still, calling her dad's best friend's brother an uncle- that was going a bit too far.

Another reason for Rosie to hate Mycroft's house (apart from its total boredom factor) was the fact that it was, in all ways, completely unlike Rosie's comfortable home in 221B Baker Street. Mycroft had no ugly wallpaper, sprayed with a yellow smiley face and shot full of bullets (Sherlock had let Rosie try that once when she was eight; they both denied any connection between that fact and the lamp that "somehow" fell from the ceiling). Mycroft had no saggy, soft couches or bouncy armchairs (Rosie had attempted to jump back and forth between the two armchairs in 221B when she was six years old; that resulted in a broken arm and a lot of spilled coffee).

Above all, Mycroft didn't have odd scraps of paper and old photographs and outdated case files littering the mantelpiece and hanging on mirrors. One could not simply make fun of Sherlock's hat by lifting up the laptop and searching the table beneath it; one could not question John's detective memory by casually looking above the microwave; one could not identify a cause of death by opening the fridge.

The lack of all these made Rosie dreadfully homesick and totally unentertained. Mycroft didn't enjoy his babysitting duties any more than she did; in fact, perhaps he was even more uncomfortable with them. So ever since she was seven, Rosie had the habit of bringing books and crayons and playing cards to Mycroft's house, to ease the boredom.

But then she finished the book.

Rosie closed her book with a sigh of content. The story ended so happily, she couldn't wait for the next book in the series. The protagonist, supposed to be in exile, was returning unexpectedly to his dearest friend because a creepy criminal was pranking all of England. Something about the whole story rang a little familiar in Rosie's mind, but she enjoyed the story anyway.

Rosie reached for the second book she'd brought.

It wasn't there.

She panicked, looking for it under every leather couch in the room before realizing she'd forgot it at home- along with all her other amusements.

Rosie smacked her forehead, annoyed at herself. WONDREFUL, now she was stuck in Mycroft's boring house for another hour with absolutely NOTHING to do.

"Mycroft?" she called sulkily. "Do you have any pencils or kids' books?"

Rosie knew the answer was no, and waited to hear Mycroft say it, but a reply didn't come. A heavy silence pressed down on her.

Rosie didn't like silence. Like her Uncle Sherlock, she was easily bored and loved action, which made her for an often-bothersome companion. But now it just supplied her with a new thing to do: Operation "Find Out Why Mycroft Is Ignoring Rosie Watson and Ask Him If He Has Entertainment".

Rosie left the living room she'd been sitting in- she didn't creep along, but walked in a way that seemed to radiate confidence. Mycroft's house was a bit intimidating; she needed to be fierce.

Mycroft was not in the next room. Rosie pretended to be Uncle Sherlock, inspecting the area for clues. There was nothing; it was just an empty guest room with a barren mattress. Rosie guessed the room had never been used, which made sense because Mycroft was not a people person.

The house was too big and quiet. Rosie stomped out of the guest room very loudly, trying to fill in the silence. Where was Mycroft?

The next room was a small kitchen. It was obvious, from the moment Rosie stepped in, that Mycroft wasn't there. She opened the fridge and looked for snacks. There was lots of cake, but Rosie didn't know where Mycroft kept plates, so she left the room empty-stomached.

After the little kitchen was a large parlor. It was old-fashioned and fancy, with ornate décor and elaborately carved wood-and-gold couches. That was quite puzzling to Rosie, because she'd always assumed Mycroft was a very modern-type person.

She was about to leave the room when something caught her eye. In the corner, partially hidden by a tall lamp, was a photograph of a curly-haired child. Rosie knew for certain that there were no kids Mycroft cared about at the least. So who was in the picture?

Rosie edged towards the lamp, peered around it at the little table. To her surprise, there was more than one photo; in fact, she found five in total.

Two were cheaply framed shots of nature views; a desert canyon and a green forest. There was a tiny, crumpled picture of Rosie as a baby (probably given to Mycroft by Sherlock. Rosie didn't know why he kept it). Then there was a photograph of a chubby, freckled teenager standing beside a boat, cased in a black metal rectangle. But most surprising was the largest one; it was framed in carved silver and featured a little boy. The boy in the picture was caught mid-laugh, his mouth open in a giggle and his eyes shut with happiness. He was no older than six and sported a head full of perfect auburn-brown curls along with pale-ish, freckled skin.

Rosie didn't have her uncle's skills, but she could deduce a few things from the photograph. First of all, it was an old one; the colors were faded and the printing un-modern. Rosie also knew that it showed a person since grown up; there was no child this young that Mycroft cared about enough to frame a photo of them.

She gazed closer at the picture. Sand and water took up the background, so evidently it was a beach. The kid was wearing a sweater, though, so it was probably cold out. Rosie guessed that the boy lived by the shore, in that case, explaining the reason for being at the sea in cold weather.

The little boy also held something long and wooden in his hand, and seemed to be waving it around. A pair of child's boots peeked from the left corner, not his; so he wasn't the only kid in the area.

"Who IS he?!" Rosie murmured, scanning the photograph.

"Why don't you ask me?"

Rosie jumped, almost dropping the photo in its frame. Mycroft stood before her, leaning jauntily on his umbrella and looking very calm.

"Mycroft!" she exclaimed, well aware of how sweaty her hands were on the photograph's glass front. "I was looking for you- and- well- who? - what? - I'm so-"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Well. I suppose you have questions. Come along, then."

Five minutes later, Mycroft and Rosie were sitting in one of the house kitchens. Rosie still clutched the picture; Mycroft occasionally sipped from a cup of tea.

Rosie blew on her own cup, waiting for it to cool down, and kicked her feet nervously. Mycroft was being scarily quiet, which was worrying. She hoped he wouldn't be too mad at her for looking at those photos.

"So." Mycroft said all of a sudden. "What were you doing in that room?"

"Looking for you. I told you already. I -"

"Why were you looking for me?"

"It's not illegal! I finished my book and wanted to see if you had any kids' stuff! God!"

Mycroft gave her a cold smile. "Feisty like your father, Rosamund."

Rosie shrugged and drank a bit of her scalding tea, instantly regretting it. She wasn't used to being called Rosamund, and was unsure whether she liked it or not.

Silence, then: "Who was the kid in the photograph, Mycroft?"

Mycroft put his cup of tea down and sighed. "It's somebody you know very well."

Rosie thought about it. "Not somebody my age. Is it you?"

"No, I was the bigger child by the boat." Mycroft shook his head.

She tapped her fingers against the table, kicking her legs and staring at the picture. Curly hair, cuteness, high cheekbones, rounded face, crinkled-eye smile-

"Oh my lord… is this Sherlock?"

Mycroft rewarded her with another chilly smile.

"Yes, Rosamund Watson, that is my little brother. He was quite the sweet little lad, if I recall correctly. Very emotional and happy."

Rosie looked over the picture again, running her fingers over Child Sherlock's little face. Frozen in a joyous smile. Still not knowing about John, about Moriarty, about Mary, about whatever traumatizing thing happened at the Ancestral Family Home, about whatever Sherrinford is, about the reason John and Sherlock never tell eachother "goodbye" or "can you do this for me". So innocent. So young. So… unlike what Sherlock became.

"Why do you have a picture of him?" Rosie found herself asking.

Mycroft sighed. "Despite what he himself may think- I _do_ care for Sherlock Homes."

He glanced down at the photo. "But you can keep that. I have no use for it. Show it to Sherlock if you like."

Rosie nodded slowly. She'd planned on asking Mycroft why he had a picture of her as well, but suspected the answer might be the same.

"Thanks, Mycroft." She said, as the familiar sound of John's car was heard from outside.

Mycroft didn't answer as she got up and turned to leave, but only when she was half-way out the door.

"The pleasure is all mine… _Rosie_."


	4. Chapter 4: Mary and Rosie

**Remember the John and Rosie chapter? The one when I almost cried because Mary? Well, this one is directly mary. Yay, more tears for us..?**

The kitchen was on fire and it was, thankfully, not Rosie's fault.

That was unusual. Most people would peg that kind of accident as the cause of an eccentric, hyper, unnaturally bright and slightly ADD ten-year-old. Heck, even the Watson-Holmes household was normally wrecked because of Rosie. But not today. Today it was all Sherlock's fault.

Rosie wasn't even in the same _room_ as Sherlock when the fire started. She was on John's laptop, intensively researching spelling words for a test. In fact, she'd just figured out that "kumquat" was a sort of orange-like thing from a "group of small fruit-bearing trees in the flowering plant family Rutaceae" when a strong, acrid smell of smoke started streaming from the kitchen.

"Huh?" she said, raising her head.

Sherlock came rushing out of the kitchen, coughing. "The room is partially on fire."

"What happened, Sherlock?" Rosie asked.

He cocked his head. "I don't think your dad would like me to tell you the full details, but the general gist is that leaving a specific amount of specific objects in the microwave for a long time is a fire hazard."

"I thought so."

They stared at eachother, then Rosie started giggling. Sherlock cracked a smile. They could have gone right back to their regular business, ignoring the flames in the kitchen, had John not smelled smoke from Mrs. Hudson's apartment and dashed upstairs.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!" He shouted, barging into the flat.

Rosie blinked. "Sherlock set the kitchen on fire."

"It was an _accident_!"

"Jesus CHRIST!" John yelped.

He grabbed Rosie and covered her mouth with his jacket, shoving her towards Sherlock.

"Keep the cloth over her mouth and stay away from the fire!" John commanded.

Sherlock, stunned, obeyed.

John edged into the kitchen and hurriedly filled two pots with sink water, promptly pouring their contents into the rising flames of the microwave.

"You sure are lucky that was a small fire," Rosie told Sherlock as the heat died down. "Because if Dad died now I'd hunt you down and murder you."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, watching John spill a final cup of water onto the now-blackened and burned microwave.

"You wouldn't have to." He said. "I'd kill myself first."

After John put out the fire, he screamed at Sherlock for a solid ten minutes. Most of it was rubbish about Endangering Rosie and Destroying Mrs. Hudson's Rented Flats. Some of it was abuse and swear words (during which he angrily covered Rosie's ears). Lots of it was just repeated phrases like: "Jesus, Sherlock" and "Unbelievable!" and "For Christ's sake, can you NOT cause havoc for once?!"

It was only when he finished yelling that John realized Sherlock had quite a serious burn on his forearm. It was a bit hectic.

"Oh my god! Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's just a burn, John."

"A BURN IS PRETTY SERIOUS, SHERLOCK."

"What could you do about it, anyway? What would be the point of telling you?"

"For Christ's sake, I'm a _bloody doctor_!"

John insisted on driving Sherlock over to the emergency room, after inspecting it and giving his medical opinion that it was at least Second Degree. Rosie was not permitted to come with them (hospitals, apparently, were not a place for young girls). Therefore she was left alone in the flat with Mrs. Hudson just outside and a firm order to not go near the burnt microwave.

The first thing Rosie did as soon as her dad and uncle left was ignore her father's command and approach the wrecked appliance. It was weirdly melted and pretty cool, but gave off an atrocious smell of smoke and burnt plastic. Rosie retreated back into the Living Room and started Looking For Clues.

Looking For Clues was a game she'd invented back when she was eight. It basically involved Rosie hunting around the cluttered little flat for any little detail that could direct her to a story from John or Sherlock. She'd been playing this game for years now, and very rarely did she find an object of interest.

Until now.

It was a wide envelope with a knife stabbed through it, pinning it to the messy mantelpiece. Rosie must have passed it hundreds and thousands of times in her life and never given in a second thought; now, however, she found its contents to be a possible clue to her father's old life.

Easing the knife out of the wood was pretty hard. It was stuck fast and deep and Rosie almost sliced her hand off a few times. She did cut herself a bit, but in the end the envelope was freed.

Sucking her bleeding finger, Rosie turned the envelope upside down and gently slid out its contents. All it held was an old DVD disc with two words written on it in black marker: MISS YOU.

Rosie inspected the disc from close and found nothing odd, so she decided to try watching it. Perhaps it held something big and special that could lead her to learning about Moriarty?

The TV DVD player still had an old record of The Jungle Book stuck within it. Rosie chucked it in the CD drawer along with all the other Disney movies and slotted in the Miss You DVD instead, curious. She then settled down on the couch to watch it.

The screen flickered and sprung to life with a video of a woman.

A woman that Rosie knew very well, though only from photographs that John carried around with him always. Only from whispered words behind her back. Only from silent tears in the night when Sherlock hugged John and repeated a sentence that Rosie couldn't make sense of.

Rosamund Watson the First- Mary Elizabeth Morstan.

Rosie recognized Mary a split second before she started speaking; a split second before her own life fell apart.

"PS." Said onscreen Mary, beginning a sentence.

Mary's voice.

Rosie had heard it when she was a baby, a little child no older than a few months. She couldn't recall what her mother sounded like. Even John's memory of Mary had begun to fade, though he'd never forget her.

 _Mary's voice._

Rosie slid off the couch and kneeled before the TV screen, her head buzzing. Mary was talking but all Rosie could hear was the voice itself: sweet, British, soft, caring. The onscreen Mary was smiling knowingly and staring, it seemed, right at Rosie.

"There is a last court of appeal-" Mary told the camera, and Rosie suddenly realized she was aiming her words at Sherlock and John. She'd made this DVD before her death, but she somehow KNEW she was going to die. She KNEW what would happen.

Rosie felt sick. Her eyes burned with brimming tears of confusion and misery and horror.

Mary kept smiling, not knowing her only child was kneeling before her with a look of despair on her face.

"I know who you are. I know who you could be. A detective who solves crimes to get high, and a doctor who never came back from the war."

Rosie's head spun. She clutched her stomach, wanting to die.

"There will always be two men, sitting in a scruffy flat, arguing-" Mary went on.

Rosie choked back a whimper. Sherlock. John. 221B. Mary. Family. What was happening? What was her life?

"-My Baker Street boys." Mary finished. "Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."

The video ended; the replay button popped up onscreen. Rosie started at her mother's face, frozen in a final and pixelated smile.

Her Baker Street Boys.

 _But there was no Rosie._

She could hear Sherlock and John coming upstairs. Their footsteps thudded on the stairway, their voices rising and talking.

Rosie didn't care.

They walked into the flat, both smiling. Sherlock had a bandage wrapped around his forearm.

"Hello, love." John said.

Rosie turned to him, her face still a mask of misery and her eyes welling up with tears. John started, realizing his daughter was in emotional pain.

"Rosie! What happened? Did you watch a sad movie again?"

Rosie stared at him as he stepped forwards to see the TV screen and stopped short, eyes widening with mourning and horror.

A single tear escaped Rosie's eye and slid down her burning cheeks. A small relief in a sea of pain.

"Mum." She whispered.

And in that moment, it seemed to be all over.


	5. Chapter 5: Just Rosie

Once, when Rosie was very small, she was taken to the Baby Circus with her daycare. The Baby Circus was a cheap little kiddy attraction with a few children-safe games and a little mirror room; the perfect place for a bored caretaker to plop down her group of babies and get some peace and quiet.

Rosie, then two years old, had waddled into the little mirror room and laughed at the sight of so many other Rosies surrounding her. She liked mirrors. Every morning Daddy John would make funny faces at her in the bathroom mirror as he put little rainbow bands in her hair. Sometimes Uncle Sherlock did, too. Rosie made herself a few silly faces on her own.

It was that moment when a little punk kid, a five-year-old called Rocky, had thrown a bunch of rocks into the little room. Those rocks smashed the glass and the whole place seemed so be breaking apart with Rosie inside it- a situation that could have been utterly traumatizing had she been old enough to remember it later on in life.

That was what she felt like now. As if her life was shattering, shards of previous dreams falling, everything crashing to pieces around her. It was as if she'd been living in a little mirror room of her own, until the truth had broken the glass and everything caved in to reveal an outside world much harsher and stranger than she'd thought.

John was still rooted to the spot, staring at the image of his dead wife on the TV screen. It was Sherlock who stepped forwards, placing a reassuring hand on John's shoulder and shaking him from his horrified stupor.

John reached out for his daughter. "Rosie-"

Rosie dodged his arm, swiping angrily at her eyes.

"Don't you DARE." She hissed, glaring at him. "Don't you DARE try comfort me."

John's arm froze in midair, a look of deep hurt farming on his face.

"Rosie?" he asked, pain in his voice.

Rosie violently dragged her sleeve across her eyes, trying to discourage her tears from falling. Still they spilt over, hot and pumping, fueled by sadness and confusion and horror and fury.

"Why didn't you tell me there was a video?" she said quietly. "Why didn't you just show it to me?"

Sherlock and John looked at eachother, and it was hard to tell which man seemed more at loss for words.

"We thought that you weren't ready." John said finally. "We were going to-"

Rosie snapped.

"MY MOTHER IS DEAD! I HAVEN'T HEARD HER VOICE SINCE I WAS A BABY! I KNOW HER FACE FROM PHOTOGRAPHS! I THOUGHT THOSE WERE THE ONLY RECORDS OF HER AND NOW I FIGURE OUT THERE WAS A WAY FOR ME TO KNOW HER VOICE ALL ALONG AND YOU HID IT FROM ME BECAUSE I _WASN'T READY_?!"

She could see John trembling and Sherlock's hand slipping down to meet John's, palms holding eachother comfortingly. This made Rosie even madder.

"I HAVE NO MUM!" she yelled. "I HAVE NO MUM AND ALL I HAVE IS YOU TWO! I GUESS THAT'S FINE FOR YOU BECAUSE YOU'VE GOT EACHOTHER BUT _I'VE GOT NO-ONE_! NOT YOU! I COULDN'T TRUST YOU! YOU KEPT _MY MOTHER'S VOICE_ FROM ME FOR TEN YEARS! MY MOTHER IS _DEAD_. SHE GOT SHOT. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT FEELS LIKE? I DON'T THINK SO!"

John and Sherlock were both paralyzed to their spot, staring at Rosie while she cried tears of rage.

"YOU SEE? I'M ALONE! _ALONE_! NOBODY THOUGHT IT WAS WRONG TO HIDE A _MOTHER'S VOICE_ FROM HER _ORPHANED CHILD_?! THAT WAS _OKAY_ WITH YOU? DAD, I'M STARTING TO THINK YOU DON'T CARE AT ALL! NOT ABOUT ME OR ABOUT MUM!"

It was that moment when Rosie knew she'd gone too far. John buried his face in his hands and she could see him start silently shaking, tears dripping through his fingers.

Rosie started shaking too as she realized what she'd just said.

Sherlock embraced John, wrapping his arms around him.

"That's enough, Rosie!" he said roughly, back to her.

Rosie heaved a sob. "Sherlock. I'm sorry. Please. I didn't mean it-"

Sherlock turned to her, a look of deep misery and disappointment on his face.

"Rosie, you just said things that have been thought by your father, at himself, hundreds of times for the past few years. All those things are thoughts that should never even pass through his mind, let alone through his own daughter's lips."

She couldn't breathe, watching her dad cry. This was her fault. She just said horrible things that might make John feel he was worthless and a bad father. And he wasn't, he _wasn't_. She'd made a terrible mistake.

Rosie turned on her heels and fled the flat.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

Her footsteps on the staircase sounded like her heartbeat, loud and uneven and scared. Sherlock shouted something behind her but she just sped up, barreling through the door and out into Baker Street.

Rosie couldn't just stay on the sidewalk; within moments Sherlock would swoop downstairs and cart her back to 221B. So she ran to the first place she could think of.

The graveyard.

She'd been there several times before. Usually Mrs. Hudson was the one who took her, and once it had been Molly; Sherlock and John, for some reason, could never set foot in the pace without looking sorrowful and wanting to leave.

It was lucky Rosie was a clever girl with a clear memory of the way she had to go. She ran it, lungs burning, legs aching.

It took Rosie seventeen minutes to get to the graveyard. She was so tired when she did that she rested for a little while on an empty wooden bench before searching for Mary's grave. There wasn't anybody else around. She was alone.

Rosie located her mother's grave with ease. She'd already visited a few times, and the red tombstone was hard to miss.

The name carved in the stone read MARY ELIZABETH WATSON. Rosie couldn't understand that; didn't John think Mary would have preferred to be buried with her real name and not a fake?

Instead of ruminating about that decision, she settled down on the hard earth before the grave and stroked the stone, running her fingers over the indented letters of Mary's name.

"Mum." Rosie whispered, as if Mary could hear her. "Mum, I've made a terrible mistake. I yelled some horrible stuff at Dad and said he doesn't care about us. That's not true, is it? Dad really _does_ care, right? Oh, Mum, I don't know a thing about you. Until today I didn't even know your voice. How did you die, Mum? Why won't Dad or Sherlock tell me?"

She breathed deeply.

"Dad's crying." She kept talking to the grave, feeling closer to her mother than ever. "He's crying awfully because I told him he didn't care. And Sherlock seemed so pale and dreadfully shocked when I was talking. Was he there when you died, Mum? Why does your name always make Dad and Sherlock look towards eachother?"

For a moment, it was as if Mary Watson had returned to life and put her hands on her grieving daughter's shoulders.

"I can't really tell you, my darling." She voice seemed to echo in Rosie's ears. "But I promise it was all for you. You'll know it all, soon enough."

Rosie raised her head and the illusion shattered. Mary was not there; she would never be. She was dead and gone and Rosie would never see her again.

Rosie wiped away her tears. This whole shenanigan was ridiculous. She'd go right back home now and apologize to John and Sherlock and never press them about Mary until they were ready to tell her.

Just then, something caught her eye. A black, marble tombstone, standing apart from the other graves. Rosie had keen eyesight, which was why the grave attracted her immediate attention. She read the name and instantly urged to make sure she was wrong about it.

Rosie got up, brushed the mud off her jeans, and slowly walked towards the gravestone. Her heart pounded as she pleaded for her sight to have been wrong.

But she wasn't. Because the black was carved with the same name she'd read from a afar and heard thousands of times in her lifetime.

SHERLOCK HOLMES.


	6. Chapter 6: Rosie is Here

**Aaaand here are the news: this is the last chapter. Yes, the last. I'm sorry. But I feel I need to stop here. I _will_ be writing a continuation fanfic titled _"Just Rosie"_ , to those of you who're interested in more. Once again, thank you for all the lovely reviews and see you in the next fanfic!**

As Rosie stood, rooted to the spot, head spinning, only one thought passed through her head: _That isn't Sherlock's full name._

Then she was walking. Robotically, mechanically, unthinkingly. Her brain buzzed, but not in an energetic way. In a broken way. In a way that signified an information overdose. If her mind was her hard drive, she'd just suffered a slight breakdown.

But no matter the shock in her head, Rosie's legs carried her, faithfully and steadily, back to 221B. Her hand rose to the door, grasped the doorknob, opened it. She stepped inside as if controlled by a remote.

"Rosie, dear!" Mrs. Hudson gasped, seeing the ten-year-old's haunted expression. "Sherlock and John have been dead worried about you! Where did you go? What the heavens happened?"

Rosie shook her head. A lump was building up in her throat, confusing and painful. She didn't have the spirit to answer her godmother's question, so she just made her way up the stairs slowly and steadily.

The flat door was open. Rosie faltered by the door, hesitating. But only for a moment, because then she was stepping inside and John was crying out in relief and crushing her in a hug and grabbing his phone and simultaneously embracing her and thanking god and calling Sherlock to tell him it was okay, Rosie was home, Rosie was safe.

"Jesus Christ, Rosie." John hung up and finally released her. "What the _hell_ did you think you were doing?!"  
Rosie opened her mouth to apologize, but no sound came out. The lump in her throat felt larger than her stomach, pounding and hurting. She shook her head again.

John frowned. "What is it? Are you okay? Rosie, did something happen to you? Where were you?"

Rosie, bombarded by questions, shook her head again. Hot tears of confusion welled up in her eyes again. Her father, seeming a bit scared, pressing her to him again.

Then Sherlock burst in, panting. He'd run all the way from the nearby park, where he'd been searching for Rosie, and he too attacked her with a strong hug.

"Sherlock." John said. "I think something happened."

"What?"

"Rosie won't talk. But look at her."

Sherlock turned to his goddaughter, gazing at her face. Rosie swallowed, the lump in her throat dying a little.

"Graveyard." She croaked.

John and Sherlock, surprised by her sudden agreement to speak, didn't catch on. "Sorry, what?"

Rosie swallowed again. "I was at the graveyard. And I saw-"

She halted, unable to go on. John's eyes widened. He put his head in his hands. "Oh, Christ."

Sherlock looked stunned. "You saw-"

"Yes." Rosie answered.

For a few minutes there was nothing in the flat but horrified silence, the kind of silence that Rosie would usually fill with loud footsteps or giggly comments. She hated silences. This one was, perhaps, the worst she'd ever experienced.

"Tell me everything." Rosie finally said. "Everything."

Sherlock sighed miserably, a sigh that slightly broke Rosie's heart. He sat down heavily in his armchair, motioning at Rosie to sit in her own seat. She did, John lowering himself into his own chair with a breath of complete loss for words.

And then Sherlock told Rosie everything. Not every detail, not every case. But he told her about The Study in Pink: how he and John first met; how they solved the case together; how John killed for Sherlock. He told her about little side cases like the Blind Banker: how they cared about eachother; how John dated Sarah. He told her about their first meeting with Moriarty: how they were both willing to die for the other; how Moriarty threatened them; how he suddenly decided to let them go. He told her about Aunt Irene (not the full thing, of course, that was a bit inappropriate): how she'd tricked him; how the Flight of the Dead had been ruined; how he'd cracked the phone code; how he'd saved Irene. He told her about H.O.U.N.D: how he and John had traveled to the village; how he'd attempted drugging John. He told her, voice shaking and eyes sad, about the Fall: how Moriarty had got him up to Bart's rooftop; how the criminal had threatened John; how he'd shot himself, making Sherlock jump; and, worst of all, how Sherlock had faked his death and disappeared for two years, leaving John heartbroken. He told her, upset, about his return. About Mary. About the wedding (he cried). About Magnussen (John flinched). About Rosie's birth. About the six Thatchers, AGRA, Mary's death (both men cried). About Culverton Smith. And then, about Eurus. His sister. About how she'd played with them in a blood-curdling game, but he didn't explain in detail what had happened.

Finally, maybe an hour later, he stopped talking.

All of a sudden, Rosie was calm. It was as though now, when she knew it all, there was no reason to be upset. And even if there was, the men sitting before her had suffered much worse.

And then there was silence. Not a dreadful silence like before. A thoughtful silence, the kind that gives you time to ruminate about your life. About you.

Rosie stood up, heading for the mantelpiece. She let her hands roam over the objects cluttering its surface: skull, papers, odd pennies. Sherlock tensed when she touched the knife, as though he thought she was planning to bring it to her wrists and cut, but he didn't reach for her. Rosie felt the blade's cold surface and shuddered, picturing a masked figure driving it into her father's stomach.

Her hands stroked the skull again, feeling the smoothness of bone. Then her fingers were brushing against the framed photograph of Mary; touching her flat, glass encased face; gazing at her wide smile. A woman frozen in time, a mother lost in it.

"Rosie." John said.

She spun around. He hadn't spoken since she'd returned, but now he had words to say. Things to tell her. Rosie nodded, to show she was listening.

"We should have told you." John said, his voice slightly choked up. "I'm so sorry. We should have told you."

"Dad-"

"No, Rosie, this time you're right. This is the sort of thing you can't just keep from your only child. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

She was afraid he'd start crying again, so she walked over and cuddled up beside him in his armchair.

"Oh, Rosie-Posie." John murmured. "Your mum would be so proud of you if she were here."

"She would?"

"Of course. She was mad about you when you were a baby, imagine how thrilled she'd be now that you're such a big, brilliant kid. Isn't that right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded, the rest of his body still as a statue.

Rosie groaned. "I can't cuddle both of you at once like this. Let's sit on the sofa."

So they did, Rosie between them, Sherlock leaning on her to her right and John's arm around her to her left. The three sat like that for a while, not talking, just breathing and feeling eachother's comforting warmth.

Eventually Rosie's limbs started going numb from pressure, tingles spreading up her skin. She squirmed off the couch. John straightened, rubbing Sherlock's shoulder.

"Thank you." Rosie told them.

"Thank you? Why?"

"Because you're amazing parents." She said. "You're the best Dad ever. Sherlock's the best godfather ever. I love you two to bits, you know, right?"

John grinned. "Of course. And you know that you're probably the most brilliant kid in the world, yeah?"

"No."

"Christ, Rosie." John rolled his eyes. "Your mum is Mary Watson and you live in a flat with Sherlock bloody Holmes. You're brighter than most adults I know. And that means you can do anything once you're grown-up. Because you have brains and heart to go around, and that's all you need."

"Yes, that's right." Sherlock added. "Which means the world better watch out."

The sun glowed through the window; Rosie heard Mrs. Hudson humming to herself downstairs; it seemed as though Mary was smiled directly at them through her photograph.

"Why?" she asked, grinning, waiting to hear Sherlock's reply.

"Because," he winked, "ROSIE IS HERE!"


	7. Goodbye

Hey, guys.

I'm writing this to let you know I will not be updating or adding to this story again. Not now, not ever.

Writing and publishing my fanfiction on this site was a meaningful part of my life, but it provided a lot of stress and I have decided to stop doing so. I probably will not be writing any fanfic at all any more, apart from specific fandoms and ideas that don't make me uncomfortable.

A lot of my fanfics are very hard for me to reread, but I will leave them up in case anybody might ever still want to read them.

Thank you all so much for being part of my growing experience as a writer. If you would be interested in my original, non-fanfiction writing, my Wattpad is teacalligraphy- you may recognize some fanfics I posted there a while back and left up for the same reason as I left them up here.

Yours Truly,

Kiwi (Anna)


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